


selfish machines

by redeyedwrath



Series: love. worship. consummation. consumption. [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional warnings pertaining to violence inside!, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Blood, Canon Compliant, Fantasizing, Inhuman Castiel, Introspection, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Relationship, Set ambiguously in Season 5, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 13:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30140487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeyedwrath/pseuds/redeyedwrath
Summary: My hands, Castiel thinks, imagines, envisions, begs, prays.I could put my hands inside of him and be satisfied.(Stands alone!)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: love. worship. consummation. consumption. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197053
Comments: 14
Kudos: 85





	selfish machines

**Author's Note:**

> ..... I have even less excuses for this than I did for the last one. Happy "my first fic that might necessitate archive warnings" to me!
> 
> Apparently this is what happens when you rewatch Hannibal with Supernatural brain. Though honestly I blame it most on the enabling of autisticandroids and Julia (who also read over this for me). They should be held responsible, not me! And piercetheveilnatural and consumehimnatural make up a one-circle venn diagram sorry lsdkfjdsl
> 
> **Warnings:** Alright so in this fic Castiel wants to be _in_ Dean. And not necessarily in a sexy way. Like he wants to touch organs in Dean and he fantasizes about this extensively and explicitly.

_And do you really trust your tongue or did you bury the taste?_  
_And is this fantasy real, or is it all home-made?_  
_And did you call me last night just 'cause you couldn't get laid?_  
_Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce the selfish machine._

**— The Sky Under the Sea, Pierce the Veil**

* * *

Streetlights, Castiel has observed, only exude enough light to allow humans to see the shapes of things. When confined to the limited perception of this form, everything is painted a muted yellow. 

There is no one around: Castiel spills out a bit, to experience the night in its full breadth.

A truck drives by and the air vibrates against skin, a hot blast that causes perspiration to bead. Castiel swallows back and looks down: shoes’ tips are balanced on the edge of the sidewalk. Shoulders drawn up tight and hunched below the trench coat, Castiel’s wings are tucked close. 

Feathers trill. Curious: Castiel doesn’t see anyone else —

A ringtone echoes through the soft yellow dark. It’s shrill compared to the buzzing of insects and the distant hum of cars. Castiel moves a hand down the coat, into a pocket. The fabric envelops skin and sticks to sweat. 

The lit-up pixels of the screen say _Dean Winchester_. A breath. Carefully sucked in, lungs expanding, diaphragm drawing down. Castiel holds for a few seconds, taps fingers against the coat to enable counting. 

The fingers — its — _his_ fingers press the button with the green (very light green, now that Castiel is confined to a vessel and the yellow casts shadows) horn on it. The depression makes the plastic catch against fingertips. 

“Hello Dean,” Castiel says, sound fluttering out faster than expected. 

“Uh,” Dean says. His breathing is soft over the phone. Castiel presses the phone closer to an ear to hear it better. “Hey Cas. Coming on a little strong there.”

“Oh. My apologies.” 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Just, you know. Most people have a phone voice.”

Castiel frowns. “You are hearing my voice through a phone.”

“I sure am, buddy,” Dean says. He huffs a laugh, the sound settling in Castiel’s core. The skin around the mouth and eyes of Castiel’s vessel pulls tight with a smile. 

“Why are you calling, Dean? Do you need me for something?”

Some shifting in the background. Another voice: Sam. Castiel is glad that Dean isn’t alone. 

“No, no, everything’s fine. It’s all—”

A distant, hissed _ah fuck_ nestles against Castiel’s ear. 

“ _Dean_.” The word tumbles out of Castiel, unthinking. Loaded with something, the vowel stretching and shaping in Castiel’s throat and cradled in its — _his_ — mouth. “Are you hurt?”

“God, you’re almost as bad as Sam,” Dean mutters softly, like he expects Castiel not to hear it. The plastic of Castiel’s phone squeaks, gripped tight between fingers. “I’m fine, Cas — it’s just a scrape.”

A scrape. Blood smeared on skin, edges of the injury bared and open. Dissonant. 

Castiel sees himself pulling Dean out of Hell. A small, wounded soul, wine-dark and raging as Castiel pulled him out. Castiel remembers when Dean relented, when his soul turned a deep red and reached out. Pulsing softly, melting; feelings so deep that Castiel couldn’t help but reach back.

Most of all, Castiel remembers the moment — singular in its reality — when the edges of Dean’s redness started to soften with a bright white-blue grace-light. 

That moment, just a split second, unnoticeable even to Zachariah. That moment, as Castiel started to seep into Dean, slowly, and Dean had sung out in agony and pleasure and had welcomed him in. 

As Castiel had laid Dean in his coffin, soul shining through the gaps between his dried and cracked bones, Castiel had made a decision. Taking clay and grace, malleable and wet, Castiel had crafted Dean lovingly. Shaped grace to form, to curves of muscle and skin, free of all marks except the one on his shoulder. 

Perfect.

“I could come over to heal it for you,” Castiel offers. Wings draw together tightly, tensing as Castiel prepares to fly to the address Dean will give. 

“No!” Dean yells, voice going higher. Castiel frowns.

“I don’t understand. I’ve healed you before.”

“And I appreciate that, man, I really do,” Dean says. He is talking fast, words tripping out of his mouth, “but it isn’t necessary. I’m sure you have important things to do. You know, search for God, spread yourself thin over New Mexico, that sort of thing.”

“God has existed since before time as you conceive of it began. He will not disappear if I meet you in your hotel room.” 

A hitched breath. Then: “ _Cas_. I said it’s fine.”

“Tell me how bad it is,” Castiel orders. For some reason, the vessel’s palms are sweating, stomach squirming. The imagined scrape becomes a deep gauge, life-threatening. The ragged edges of the wound stretch until it takes up Dean’s entire torso. 

“No,” Dean says, breathy.

Castiel squints at nothing. “Give the phone to Sam.”

“No!”

Castiel thinks about hanging up and calling Sam instead. Then, muted: _Alright, that’s it_. 

_Son of a bitch!_ Dean calls out. Castiel listens to Sam’s nails scrabble against the receiver. There’s more yelling and huffing, ending in conspicuous silence.

“Hey, Cas!” Sam says, panting slightly. “How are you?” 

“Sam. I am… well. How is Dean?”

Sam huffs out a breath. “Dean is fine. We were hunting a werewolf, got caught up in some stupid bet. Dean paid the price with a claw mark that stretches from his collarbone to the edge of his pants. I told him he should be glad it didn’t go any lower.”

Ah. 

Castiel drifts out of time, wings gently moving back and forth to navigate the stream. He sees: Dean, laid out, panting. Head thrown back. His shirt is held up to show his wound, a dark red. 

The slash stands out compared to the rest of him. It’s not deep, not too deep, but blood slowly seeps out of it. Dean’s face is creased, frowning. His fingers move to test the damage and his breath hitches. 

If Castiel had been there, present, the werewolf would’ve been dead before it could lay hands on Dean. But if Dean had asked Castiel to heal him… 

Dean warm against fingertips and skin, dripping. Blood collecting in the pores of Castiel’s vessel, staying there for days, a piece of Dean Castiel can carry as Dean carries Castiel’s handprint. Dean’s voice cracking as he says _Cas, please, please_. 

The vessel’s — Castiel’s, _his_ cock… it moves. In his pants.

“O-oh,” Castiel breathes. The sound whistles weirdly through his teeth. There is… He needs… “I could—”

“Cas, really, I patched him up with some whiskey and dental floss. Or, well, a lot of whiskey,” Sam murmurs. “Plus, Dean doesn’t want you to come over so you probably shouldn’t.”

“He is uniquely stubborn. I—” Castiel stops. Words are hard right now; they seem to stick in h — his throat, blocking his airways. He makes himself swallow, and his voice comes out rough. “I have to go.”

Confused, Sam says: “Alright. Well, before you go—”

“Bye, Sam,” Castiel says, and hangs up on him. The plastic of the phone remains pressed to his ear, suddenly cold as Castiel’s arteries seem to swell. 

A breath in: chest expanding, diaphragm down, oxygen rushing, hold, hold, hold. Then, a breath out, bones and muscles moving back, relaxed.

Again. Again. A dry mouth: Castiel swallows. The — _his_ heart is pumping, beating so fast Castiel feels it in his throat. His fingers won’t stop shaking. His cock is hard. 

Castiel’s wings move without conscious thought. 

The hotel room is clean and empty. The walls are a dark blue, kitchenette set in a niche against the wall. The bedding is off-white and brown, devoid of any obvious stains but still grimy. 

This is where Castiel saved Dean from Zachariah. Dean has laid on that bed.

Castiel sits down slowly, fingers balled on knees, nails catching against skin. He reaches out a hand, trailing it down the bedding. Dean has laid here. If Castiel tries hard enough, he can still feel the remnants of his own grace, resonating back. 

A spasm in his chest; another one; it aches. Castiel brings up a hand to rub the spot but it doesn’t stop hurting. He lies down. He doesn’t know — this body…

The ceiling is spackled white. Castiel conjures up shapes. Dean, here, eyes closed, mouth open. Face relaxed in sleep. Shirtless; the handprint on his shoulder there for Castiel to see, to touch, burning bright white-blue in the dark. 

_Ah_ , Castiel breathes out unwittingly. Hips — _his_ hips pivot off the bed. 

He’s hard. 

Castiel throbs with the image, his heartbeat pulsing in his dick. He doesn’t need air but his mouth falls open with a desperate gasp for it. Castiel has watched, before, as humans did this, trained his eyes on them and watched furtively. He shoves his hand down, flicks the button open.

Castiel jolts at the touch to his dick, his fingers firm around the base. His toes curl. He’s — Dean, Dean has done this before, grabbed himself and offered his body up to pleasure. Castiel drags his fingers up slowly, warmth shivering through him as he touches himself, and thinks about Dean doing the same, Dean —

Dean would never touch him like this. 

_My hands_ , Castiel thinks, imagines, envisions, begs, prays. _I could put my hands inside of him and be satisfied_. 

Sam’s voice echoes through Castiel’s being, on repeat: _a claw mark that stretches from his collarbone to the edge of his pants_. Slowly, Castiel breathes. His hand clenches around his cock, the hair wiry against his fingers. He closes his eyes, and _sees_. 

A warehouse. Dean collapsed against the wall, sitting on concrete. Castiel kneels down next to him, close, close enough that the air Dean displaces washes over him. Dean’s breath comes out in fast little puffs, and he touches the wound.

Castiel reaches out to catch his wrist. 

“Stop,” he says, and Dean looks up at him, green eyes big. “Let me.”

Dean swallows. Nods. Castiel’s hands are shaking again. His skin, _his skin_ , feels tight, drawn up, his grace swirling warm inside him and pressing to the surface. Dean’s skin is fine against his fingertips, paper-thin, barely able to conceal Dean’s insides.

Castiel presses a palm to Dean’s side, just brushing the bloodied edges of the wound, feels Dean from the outside. Dean’s breath hitches, his chest drawn in under Castiel’s hand, then slowly relaxing again. Castiel rubs a little, to soothe, to placate, and when he looks up, Dean is staring at him again.

Castiel puts his fingers in Dean. 

Dean is tight around him, warm, clenching with every movement. Vulnerable beneath him, trembling and exposed, meat and bones and muscles fragile and Castiel can _touch_ , his hands are _in_ Dean, gripping tightly. He could squeeze and break Dean, and Dean is letting him. Dean’s blood warm and red and coppery against his skin, mingling with sweat. 

Dean’s guts pulse in his hands, soft and slippery, like they’re reaching back towards Castiel. Dean whimpers, eyes closed, the skin of his throat fluttering as his larynx strains and Castiel shivers; his fingers are slick. 

Castiel wants to consume him, wants to make Dean swallow down his grace and burn everything away, wants to sink his vessel’s teeth into Dean’s skin, his guts, sip on his blood and crack open his ribcage. 

Shivering, Castiel brings up a hand. A path of blood up Dean’s chest, smearing Dean in his own life, vibrant in a way he hasn’t been since Castiel raised him. 

“Dean,” Castiel asks in his head. Dean’s eyes open a fraction, filled with tears and gleaming green. “Can I?”

Blood bubbles up through Dean’s mouth, trails down his chin, over his neck. His eyes are wide. Castiel leans down to lick it, sweet and coppery; it settles in his stomach, cradled in his grace, wine-dark flecks of Dean’s soul swirling within and Castiel tears it apart to get to it. 

“Please, Cas,” Dean begs. 

The desperation in Dean’s voice consumes him, the waver in his voice and the way his breath hitches at the end. Dark and endless, absolutely true, Castiel rises above him. Gospel vibrates through him. Righteousness. Dean asks him, held down and begging, split open so Castiel can see the truth of him. 

(Castiel is dripping onto his own belly, cock straining up, white smeared onto his skin. In Castiel’s head, the drops turn a dark red — hot against him, warm, pulsing. He clamps a hand down onto himself and holds on as a wave crests over him, flowing out of him like grace.) 

Castiel sinks his fingers inside.

Dean’s skin parts like paper, dissolving under Castiel’s hunger. He digs, and Dean gasps and moans in ecstasy, flesh detaches from muscles, relaxing, opening. Dean’s bones are a shining white in the darkness of his insides, and Castiel sees how his grace has sunk into them, remembers forming them. 

Dean opens for him, warm and inviting; his ribs snap with a crack. Dean groans, the electric impulses in his brain firing all at once, tickling the edges of Castiel’s skin. Mouth slack, red. Breaths come out through his nose. Face softly frowning, but open, split down the center and beheld by Castiel. 

Castiel finds what he’s looking for, slightly to the left, small enough to fit in his hand. 

Holding Dean. He’s holding Dean in his palm, his heart beats fast like Castiel’s wings. So fast it’s almost still, drowning in pleasure and ecstasy, caught in the gravity of sensations. The muscle squelches against his fingers and Castiel soothes it, presses his lips to the warm, pulsing organ. 

(Castiel tightens his fingers around himself, the fabric of his underwear soaked and sticking to him.)

_Thank you_ , Dean breathes, his eyes sinking closed. 

Nothing. Castiel empties, out of his vessel, out of himself, holding his cock tight. Distantly, Castiel feels a wet spurt, but the world is sound and shape and smell. His throat is making vibrations, legs thrashing against his pants. 

He tastes copper, senses drowning in the sweet-hot waters of ecstasy. He screams in jubilation, and Heaven hears his cry. 

His heart beating fast like Dean’s, still cradled against him. Waves of sensation ripple through him, burning hot, his grace soaring through the hotel room. It burns. 

When Castiel comes back to his vessel, he finds it sticky and damply cold. His heart is racing still, breath coming out in too-quick pants, uncontrollable. He uses some of his grace to clean himself. 

He doesn’t think about what just happened. 

Remembering that Dean was hurt, he grabs his phone. Sam has texted him an address. 

**Sam Winchester** (10:37pm)  
_Dean is asleep now._

**Sam Winchester** (10:41pm)  
_If you wanna come over to heal him, you can._

Castiel thinks about. His hands on Dean. His grace curling over him, in him. 

**Castiel** (10:58pm)  
_I’ll be there._

**Author's Note:**

> Um. Well. I guess I hope you guys liked that??? Please leave a comment if you did I am fully losing my mind over hungry Cas
> 
> (Also if you REALLY liked it you could [reblog the fic post on Tumblr](https://icegifs.tumblr.com/post/646107840169279488/selfish-machines-by-redeyedwrath-me-rating). If you want!)


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